


A Home Here, And There, and Everywhere

by ryssabeth



Series: Metropolitan Art [13]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Homeless Character, M/M, depressed character, spoilers it's grantaire grantaire is the depressed character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is much that can be said for Eponine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Home Here, And There, and Everywhere

It’s Tuesday.

It’s Tuesday and Grantaire isn’t where he normally is—but this isn’t worrying. He’s changed his routine up before, when there are too many people, or parades, or a child he’s promised something to the next day. The worrying part is that Grantaire isn’t where he normally  _isn’t_  either.

And Eponine supposes that skipping classes was more appropriate than she had originally figured. Wandering Paris takes time—especially when it must be done slowly, and with care, so that she doesn’t miss the dark head of hair she’s looking for, unobscured by the cap that had, before, been on his head. The cap that had recently been taming Enjolras’ curls.

The cap that Eponine has in her purse.

Noon comes and goes and Eponine peers in churches and shelters, and he isn’t in any of those.

It’s only after one (and her legs are getting sore, and admiration for Grantaire’s constant movement strikes her) that she finds the mop of curls she’s looking for, sitting on one of the docks where the ferries pull in, his legs dangling off the edge, trainers hovering above the Seine.

“Grantaire!” Eponine trots down the stairs—before she slows down at the drawn look on Grantaire’s face when she walks up to him. His backpack is missing, notably. ( _He never goes anywhere without that._ ) As is his shirt, his jacket draped over his shoulders, zipped but revealing his bare chest. His eyes are bloodshot, red rimmed—with alcohol or tears, it’s very hard to tell.

Eponine would guess the former—but the backpack is gone.

And so she places a hand upon his head and says, “where’s your ‘pack? You’ll lose your charcoal pencils that way.”

“Pencil,” Grantaire corrects, absently. “I’ve just got the one. I  _had_  just the one, better said that way, because my backpack is at the bottom of the Seine.” Eponine stops petting his hair, flattening the curls with still fingers. “Or, wait, depending on how water logged it got, it could be at the  _end_  of the Seine and in the sea.”

Eponine resumes her ministrations on his hair and he looks back at the water. “What happened?”

“Someone stole the bag, thinking there was something worth selling in it,” he murmurs. “And I grabbed him and the bag  _flew_  from his arms because the world is a pretty shitty place. Into the Seine went everything.” He swallows. It’s a motion done with the whole of him, travelling from his neck to his shoulders to the base of his spine. A grimace. “Including my toothbrush.”

His voice cracks on that one.

“What happened to your shirt?” Eponine asks quietly, tugging gently on his hair until he brings his legs away from the water and wobbles to his feet. (He slits his eyes for a second—a hangover, she imagines.)

“I got too drunk and threw up on it. And so, I figured, since I was losing everything else, might as well toss that too, because it’ll stain.” He nudges him in the direction of her flat and follows him up the stairs—and she watches as he reaches for the straps of his knapsack, trying to fit his thumbs underneath them, though they aren’t there, anymore. “It was my only toothbrush,” he whispers, and Eponine only catches it on the breeze that carries it behind him.

“I’m sorry,” she says—and she is.

Grantaire balances along the curb, walking with careful steps even as cars go by. But he’s always done that, before he dropped out of classes and after, tightroping his way down the cement curve of the sidewalk.

His eyes water, periodically, but he doesn’t shed a tear—even after Eponine unlocks her door. Even after he pulls of his jacket and murmurs to her  _can I use your shower?_

“Of course,” is the answer she gives. But she says to his back, “I’m going out. Don’t touch anything in the fridge or I swear, I’ll tie your wrists so tightly behind your back you won’t be able to feel your fingers.”

He stops only to toss a glance over his shoulder and say, “kinky,” but there is none of his usual humour behind it, and he disappears around the corner.

Eponine trusts him in her home.

Because, at least a little bit, it’s been his home too.

(She shuts the door behind her to the sound of shower spray starting up.

It’s probably freezing cold—because Grantaire hates to use her hot water.)

-

Enjolras sits on the front table—the Senate will need the room soon, and so this meeting will need to be short and clipped. (He runs a hand over his hair, wishing that he wasn’t an idiot, wishing— _wishing_ — _“don’t look at me like that.”_ )

He’s about to start when Eponine sweeps in, a purse bouncing on her hip, a packaged toothbrush gripped tightly in one hand.

“I can’t stay,” she says, her hair windswept and her eyes bright. (She spares no glance for Marius—for the first time in ages, or what seems like ages—but this weekend,  _yesterday_  seems like ages ago, so Enjolras isn’t the best keeper of time.) “But I have something for you.”

(Everyone watches her—Combeferre watches her the longest, blinking behind his glasses at her ferocity.)

Eponine reaches into her purse, pulling out a knit cap—gray. Gray and familiar. “I washed it,” she says quietly. “It was trampled, a little. You ought to keep better track of things that can’t be replaced, hm?”

Enjolras’ fingers wrap around the fabric of the hat, and he swallows. “Do you know where he is?”

She blinks at him and cocks her head. “No idea,” she replies. “I’m not his keeper.”

He pulls the hat over his hair and looks at the others as Eponine walks back out, holding onto the toothbrush, her knuckles still white, and the door clicks shut behind her.

“Meeting adjourned for today,” he says briskly, shaking out the curls not pinned by the cap.

No one protests—no one says much of anything at all.

Or, if they did, Enjolras doesn’t hear them, because he’s already grabbed his things and slipped out the door, though Eponine has disappeared, completely out of sight and down the stairs, on her way home.

( _“prefers bus stations, I think”_ )

Enjolras tugs the cap over his ears, taking a deep breath.

And he makes no plans to go home, any time soon.

( _"Don’t look at me like that."_ )


End file.
